


Every Dark-Printed Definition

by hauntedlittledoll



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman and Robin (Comics), Forever Evil (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Dick Grayson is a Talon, Gen, Lazarus Pit, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 03:23:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1924902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hauntedlittledoll/pseuds/hauntedlittledoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a bird at his window, but this time--this time, it is not a dream.</p><p>Alternate Ending to "Forever Evil" storyline in which Dick Grayson survives as a Talon.  Assumed Ra's al Ghul would eventually succeed in raising Damian Wayne via Lazarus Pit in "Batman and Robin."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Dark-Printed Definition

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from The Raven Boys by Maggie Stiefvater.
> 
> This has been written for a few months, evolving from my original theory* about Dick possibly surviving "Forever Evil" as a Talon, but I didn’t feel comfortable publishing it until we knew for sure that Dick would NOT be coming back as a Talon (not to say that I’m happy with the premise of "Grayson," because I am so displeased … There. Are. No. Words. But at least the spy mission might eventually end rather than Dick suffering through a Talon's immortality for the rest of comic book time).
> 
> *See End Notes

_“More than anything, the journal wanted. It wanted more than it could hold, more than words could describe, more than diagrams could illustrate. Longing burst from the pages, in every frantic line and every hectic sketch and every dark-printed definition. There was something pained and melancholy about it.”_

* * *

Not even a Super would have heard the bird land on the window sill, but Damian has been waiting.  The window is open, but nothing crosses the threshold.  Instead, there is a bird call so soft that it might have been genuine.

The presence at the window springs away before repeating the call.  Damian follows instinctively, and what would Father say if he found out that Damian left the safety of the Manor to investigate the hoot of an owl … ?

He has to move quickly to keep up as they leave the lawn and enter the tree-line.  The other seems to have given up on walking entirely in the last few months, rebounding off trees and stones as if fully adapted to this environment too.  Damian isn’t as used to nature’s pitfalls and misses the certainty of brick and mortar under his hands and feet.

They had the Batmobile for a reason, and that reason was to get them to the city proper before they wore themselves out.  Damian is still recovering from almost a year of decay; he is not running all the way to the heart of Gotham in his pajamas with or without the refresher course in acrobatics.

As if reading his mind, the other hesitates above before taking one last leap and landing in a deep crouch a few feet away.  It seems to take the man a few moments to remember to stand upright again.

Damian waits.

His brother unfolds like it’s painful—as if the graceful bird in flight is a completely different creature than the man—and they stare at each other in silence.  Dick Grayson no longer wears a mask, and it is his broad smile that greets Damian now.

“Those are my knives,” Damian announces, his eyes narrowing at the blades sheathed at his older brother’s waist.

Ancient … yes.  More lethal than anything else Grayson could possibly own … of course.  But the blades of a true Talon?  No.

Grayson has the audacity to roll his eyes.  “It’s called a memento, Damian.”

“It is called theft,” Damian refutes, shifting closer.

Grayson shifts back, and Damian recoils.

They are not quite the hugging sort—he and Grayson—not really.  Damian has never been gracious when it came to the giving and receiving of affection, and his mentor has respected that by limiting his demonstrative nature to a warm hand on the shoulder or leaning his weight playfully against the smaller vigilante.  Small things.  Brief things.

Actual prolonged contact had been limited to those few occasions of extreme injury or intense emotion, but Damian has it on good authority that reuniting after a prolonged absence or in the narrow escape of certain death are occasions deserving an embrace free of judgment.

It is awkward for a full minute, and then Damian tries again only to have his brother backtrack swiftly.

It is not as if Damian needs his mentor’s affection—he certainly doesn’t want to submit to the octopus-like grip of an overwrought acrobat—but Grayson’s rejection still stings.  Why had the man bothered to return after all this time if not to reassure himself of Damian’s resurrection?

“Gray- _son_ ,” he half-snarls, trying to grab the man and force him to hold still.

“You don’t want to do that, kiddo,” the man murmurs softly, darting back out of reach.

Damian doesn’t understand, and then abruptly thinks that he might understand after all.  He crosses his arms across his chest in a show of concession and returns to staring at his brother, raising one unimpressed eyebrow in studied imitation of Pennyworth.  “Show me.”

“I don’t think—”

“ _Now_ , Grayson.”

Grayson makes a face at him that is half-grimace and half-exasperation, but starts shedding the extraneous pieces of his uniform.  The gloves and gauntlets first, but his armbands and the detachable cowl hood follow.  Grayson drops the harness of modified weaponry on top of the pile, and flicks his gaze up at Damian.  “You too,” the man stipulates, his fingers hooked in the suit’s closure at the back of his neck.

Damian shrugs carelessly and pulls the t-shirt over his head.  Thanks to the Lazarus Pit, there isn’t a mark on his body.

Grayson’s torso, on the other hand, is littered with old and new scars alike.  Some Damian recognizes from their time together as Batman and Robin.  Some he knows predated his existence, and some … some are hideous marks that no one could have possibly survived.

He finds himself staring at the evidence of a bomb wired to his brother’s chest, and wonders how Father could have missed Grayson’s impossible status for even a moment.  Grayson is almost close enough to touch now, and Damian starts to reach out only to yank his hand back again as he remembers Grayson’s sudden need for personal space.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.  Damian still feels the phantom pain of the blow that killed him after all.

Grayson hesitates before shaking his head.  “Not anymore.”

It had when inflicted, Damian translates automatically, seething in bitter and useless anger.

The Owlman had done this to his brother.  He had turned Grayson into what the man most feared, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, the villain had surrendered him to further torture and exploitation by the rest of his world’s rogues as proof of Dick Grayson’s unnatural regeneration.

Damian isn’t supposed to still be feeling the aftereffects of the Pit-rage, but he would argue this temptation needs no assistance from his bloodline.

He gets a grip on the anger and takes a deliberate step forward.  Grayson steps back again.

Damian lunges, and his brother sidesteps.

Damian swears as Grayson continues to dodge his attack.  It’s not even a proper spar, but a contained game of keep-away that his older brother is winning.  Grayson is better than the man has ever been; Damian knows that kind of determination—the months of nonstop training needed to make a person stronger, faster, smarter … _less weak._   He knows what it is like to do whatever it takes to assure himself that he will never fail again.

He has struggled down that path countless times under the League of Assassins.  Even now, Damian is fighting the same battle all over again, consumed with that need to be better, to earn back his name and uniform from an over-protective parent, to prove himself to _himself_ in the wake of such a devastating failure against a mere clone.

“Will you _hold still?”_ Damian demands hotly as Grayson flips over his head, crouching to recover for a split second before Damian can approach him and then swinging out of reach again

“You should go back,” Grayson says instead.  “It’s cold out.”

“You might have thought of that a bit sooner,” Damian hisses, lashing out with a blow that could have broken bone if it connected.  “Will you keep your feet on the ground?!”  That startles a laugh out of his older brother, and Damian hauls himself up into the tree after the man.  “Look at me, you … you—”  Damian steels himself, timing his pursuit perfectly and flinging his entire weight at the Talon with utter abandon.  “… _Dick!”_

His brother drops effortlessly, and Damian sails over the man’s head.  There’s nothing to catch himself on.  A few weaker branches snap at the half-hearted attempt, and then Damian crashes to the ground.  He rolls a few feet, coming to a halt by smacking his skull against an inconvenient tree stump, and takes advantage of the excuse to go still.

Damian will never hear the end of it if he goes home with an inexplicable concussion, but he calculates the satisfaction to be worth both the pain and the inevitable coddling.  He stays motionless--half curled towards the offending deadwood--with his limbs askew and a highly uncomfortable rock digging into his belly.

He can hear Grayson shifting restlessly.  It would have been a silent tell in an urban setting, but nature betrays the older vigilante.  “I’m not falling for that,” his brother calls.  “I’m not.”

Damian remains still.

“Just how stupid do you think I am?” Grayson trills angrily.  The accusation is met with silence.  “Knock it off, you little brat,” Grayson insists.  “You little—Damian, this isn’t funny.”

The man stays where he is.  Damian waits.

“I’m not buying this for a moment,” Grayson warns, stalking away to restore his uniform.  Damian can hear the rustle of material and muted clap of gloved hands.  “If I come over there, it will only be to kick your ass.”

Damian keeps silent.

“I hate you,” Grayson mutters, and he’s already crouching over Damian.

Still, Damian waits until his pulse has been located … although how the man could hope to measure it through his gloves is beyond Damian.  He waits as Grayson cautiously turns him and cradles his bruised skull in one hand, grumbling all the while.  He waits out the petty insults and empty threats.  Damian waits for the hand to move carefully to the back of his neck and an arm to slide under his knees.

It is only when Grayson starts to lift him that Damian jackknifes upward and slaps his palm over his older brother’s mouth.

He understands instantly why the man wouldn’t let him close—Grayson’s skin is icy to the touch.

Damian cautiously releases his brother’s jaw and is relieved when the former-acrobat doesn’t drop him or spring away to begin the game anew.  He isn’t sure that he could catch the man again, but Damian will try if he has to.  Grayson doesn’t move at all except to hang his head … as if waiting for his sentence.

Damian shifts to get his knees under him.  On his brother’s level now, Damian keeps his hands to himself this time and bows his own head.  He presses his forehead against Grayson’s—withholding the flinch by sheer willpower.

“Look at me,” he repeats, gentler this time as if Grayson is one of his animals.  He can be kind.

His brother shakes his head, keeping his eyes tightly shut.

“Are you mad at me, Grayson?” Damian prods deftly.  He can be patient.  “At my failures?”

It is a successful gambit; his brother’s eyes pop open and their muted colour does not obscure the feeling with which Grayson protests this line of inquiry.  “Of course not!”

“I left you,” Damian pushed a little further, softening his voice just a touch more.  “I was not there to watch your back when they came for you.”

Grayson grips his arms hard enough to leave bruises.  “That is not _your job,_ Damian.”

Damian doesn’t point out that it once was.  Grayson and Father may make pretty speeches about a Robin’s duty—promising partnership and equality—but Batman will always gladly sacrifice himself before his bird.  Damian supposes that he will understand it when he is older.

Grayson releases him abruptly.  “I’m sorry.  I—I am so sorry, Damian, for everything.”

“I hold no grudge,” Damian sniffs.

“That’s not …” Grayson trails off.  He hesitates, and then shifts, carding one gloved hand through Damian’s hair carefully.  “How can I be so happy to see you? And still be so angry with Ra’s and Bruce for letting this happen?” his brother murmurs.

Grayson is trembling now, and Damian cautiously wraps his arms around the man.

“The pit is wrong,” Damian admits freely, pressing his brother’s cold face into his neck.  He is more Ra’s al Ghul than Bruce Wayne now, and Damian hates the Lazarus in his veins even as he relishes every moment of his second chance.  “You taught me that … and then you lived it.”

Damian had learned his lesson from Grayson’s self-hatred in the wake of that failed attempt to bring back Father.

“It was a weakness; I knew … I knew he wouldn’t be the same.  No one ever is,” the man whispers shakily as if on the edge of tears.  “Jason.  Kate.  You.”

He is leeching away Damian’s body heat; Damian only wishes that he had more to give, but Grayson had been right earlier.  The night air is cold, and Damian is only wearing thin pajama bottoms now.

“I never wanted to live forever.”

Damian has his own opinions on that matter, but he keeps his mouth shut.  What he is and isn’t willing to do when it came to his Father and his City--it has no place here.  Grayson is not like him, and Damian would have respected that in the end.

It would have hurt, but better having a fond memory than being hated forever.

“I know,” Damian whispers instead.  He thinks about how easily they all dispatched the Talons, how the Batman’s code doesn’t apply to something _already dead_ , and how his brother’s body is littered with what should have been mortal wounds.

The knife is already in his hand.

Damian wonders how many of Grayson’s scars are self-inflicted and what keeps the man from finishing the job now that he’s finally escaped the suffocating attentions of their family.  He suspects this is what Grayson wants of him; he knows somehow that Todd has already refused.  “I know, Grayson.”

He is playing the older brother now, Grayson half-folded in his lap.  With his free hand, Damian strokes the man’s hair as his mother had once done for him during simpler times.  He wishes for complications, for reasons, for a sign …

… because Damian can still fix this.  With the right words, he can remind Grayson of their respective ages and the lifetime that his brother has devoted to protecting others.  Damian can make this about his needs and his wants.  Grayson will sit up and take over the heavy duty of comfort, pulling himself together for his little brother’s sake.  Damian can be selfish, and Grayson will never complain.

He can’t make Grayson human again, but he can still salvage the man.  He can put his brother back together—Damian is so strangely _good_ at that.  He can guide Grayson back to the cave, press him into their father’s service once more, and his brother will follow where Damian leads.

Damian can live forever if that is what Grayson needs.  He _can_.

It flies in the face of everything Grayson wants.

“I can’t … I cannot fix _you_ , Grayson,” Damian murmurs instead, low and regretful.  “But I will stand by your side if you would have me.”

His brother goes stiff, visibly bracing himself for death or disappointment or both.

“I apologize,” Damian whispers, pressing the stolen knife back into the sheathe at his brother’s waist.  “I cannot end you either.”  He forces himself to continue.  This is a compromise after all—Damian’s second chance.  “Not yet.”

Grayson is perfectly still; his faith and trust are absolutes that have shaped Damian’s world among the Bats.

"But I can give you my word as your Robin," Damian promises.  "I will not allow you to outlive me twice."

**Author's Note:**

> **Theory:**
> 
> My theory about Dick’s fate—Owlman has already turned Dick into a Talon, and he will reanimate in _Forever Evil #7_. This would tie back to the revelations from the _Court of Owls_ arc, and could lead to another Owls event. Dick undoubtedly abandons both the Nightwing identity and the Batfamily. No one can find him.
> 
> **Reasoning:**
> 
> His identity has been stripped from him. He’s been denied agency throughout the entire arc. Presumed (prior to _Nightwing #29_ ) failure resulted in his death sentence.
> 
> Call me a lit major, but this seems a rather heavy-handed allegory for the Talons . . . even before we even get into his doppelganger from the other world actually **being** the Talon manipulated by Owlman.


End file.
